[It's just that it happens. It's happened more than once, and if he doesn't fucking deal with this shit now, he's going to go out again, and it's going to happen again. Yeah, it's easy to not give a fuck, but it's also easy for Noah to point at Sam and say, Look at you. This is why I want you home with me. He can't do that if Sam's body is whole, if he isn't bruised or cut or broken.] You'd be fucking fine if I came home like that? [One eyebrow raises in skepticism he makes no attempt to hide.]

I'd wanna watch you with Q, too. Or you be in me when I'm fucking Q. Or - dude, it wouldn't just be for me, okay? [He mutters, not wanting to hear it.] Why the fuck can't we act like we're hooking up for the first time with her when we get, like, fucking drunk? And shit just happens? I do stupid shit when I'm drunk. She knows that. Fuck, you know that. [Exhibit A: Their first night together. Not that's it's a stupid thing, really, but it's a step he never would have taken sober. And, regardless? He really doesn't want to lose the safety of Quinn being his girlfriend. It's so easy with her. They do shit together, she's there, the paparazzi assumes they're this cute as fuck couple now that he's not banging groupies, and life is good. Nobody assumes he's fucking his best friend.]

[Even as he wraps Sam's ribs, Puck's mouth finds Sam's; he kisses him softly, gently, careful to not kiss over the scratches and cuts on his face and mouth, but intentionally distracting him from the movement of his hands. It likely doesn't help much, but he's doing his best.] I know. [He murmurs softly.] S'okay. I'll get the shit I have. You need anything else? I'll take care of you.